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The World Left Behind: Soldier of the Faith
Southern Pan-Africa, Papal State Humanitarian Aid Outpost July 23rd, 2032 Father Patrick McNally sat at his post on the top of the church bell tower, his sniper resting beside him. The moonlight shown off of the metal of the gun making it almost seem to glisten, a trait that McNally took much pride in. He took a long drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke go up as he blew it out, all the while wondering if he had anymore cigarettes down in the main storage area under the church. Naturally, he thought, there should be as it was a vital part of being stranded here in Africa working as "humanitarian aid" which really meant he just sat and watched people take the food and water he was sent from the Vatican. Patrick, when he was a boy, had grown up with the illusion of the priesthood, travelling the world doing the will of the Church and the Papal States and commanding people into battle for the faith, but those illusions were gone now and he knew that he was just doing his job like anyone else. Though this day would be slightly different than the rest of the days he had been stuck in that outpost, for it was on this day he heard the loud shuffle of running footsteps and the growls of an infected running towards his quaint slice of Africa. He readied his rifle and started looking out over the field that stretched in front of his church. Surprised by what he saw, specifically the infected as they haven't been spotted this far north in quite some time. Nonetheless, Patrick steadied his arm and prepped to put a bullet between the once human's eyes. He squeezed the trigger and the shot rang out as it spit out of the gun hurdling towards that damned member of infected horde. The shot hit true and Patrick watched as both of the men dropped down low to the ground when the shot hit and the infected hit the ground, a large hole having ripped through its head. "Get inside!" yelled Patrick as he began to climb the ladder down to the main area of the church. The old wooden pews lined the room and the altar made of marble stood empty, the church seemed as silent as a graveyard with just Patrick walking to the doors to open them being the only sound that could be heard. As Patrick opened the door a large man fell down on the cold stone floor at his feet, as if he had been leaning against the door when he had oepned it. The other man picked helped up to the ground, Patrick could see that the man who had fallen's leg may have been broken as their was a makeshift splint holding it in place. "Thank you, we may not have made it if we didn't have you there to make that shot," said the man holding the injured man. "It wasn't a problem, I was just doing the Lord's work," said Patrick, throwing on the illusion of the faithful priest, an illusion he normally threw on when talking with people. "Whatever you say preacher, do you know where I can drop this Ruski?" said the man holding the now identified Russian. "This way we have mattresses in the basement," said Patrick leading the man and his friend towards the basement of the church, though he could tell that the man felt uneasy in the dark and somewhat damp basement of the church. The bellows of the church were candle lit, as the one generator that the church has is used for the main area upstairs and a few floodlights outside. The basement was full of boxes and crates eachone filled with materials such as food and cloth for making clothes an even bullets. Each of the boxes had the Vatican's seal on the side of it in bright red ink, which sharply contrasted with the light coloring of the wood that the crates were made out of. Behind many of the boxes were a few bedrolls. "Looks like the church knows how to roll out the red carpet," said the man, Patrick finally placed his accent as American and chuckled at his response to the bedrolls. "Better than sleeping on the pews without them," said Patrick as he moved to go and grab the bedrolls walking back upstairs towards the wooden pews of the main area of the church. He unrolled the bedrolls onto the pews with the help of the American and laid the Russian down on the first bedroll. "So...What exactly happened out there?" asked Patrick slightly curious as to the two armed men with military gear showing up at his church needing sanctuary. "Our op went south and we were stranded south of here. We tried to make a our way back or at least head towards New Carthage, but as you can see we ran into a little touble," said the American explaining the series of events that led up to their meeting with Patrick. "I see...So now who are you?" asked Patrick his curiosity deepening as he lengthened the conversation. "I'm Joseph and the passed out Ruski is Hunter," said Joseph, explicitly not saying there last names. "I'm Patrick McNally, pleasure to meet you," said Patrick extending his hand towards Joseph who took it with a golden grip that Patrick could tell was one of a working man. The two men split there, Joseph needing his rest and Patrick returning to his post. It was interesting to meet the both of them, though technically only one, Patrick was just glad that someone was actually using the main room of the church for once. He stared at the moon, the light of which would be his only companion tonight, well that and his lucky cigarette, as he stood watchful guard over his church. A soldier of faith if there ever was one.